I Am Not A Robot
by bangarang413
Summary: It's obvious that Pickles has a lot of growing up to do, and in spite of appearances, Charles does, as well. Will they both be able to put aside their pasts and their demons to be able to have a fully functional relationship?
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note**: This fanfiction is heavily based on a series of roleplays that I did with my friend, whose pen name is thetoastlives. It is already proving extremely difficult for me to write. I feel like I'm presenting Pickles as out of character. Feedback would be appreciated. Thank you!

* * *

"Feckin' robot..."

The words are accompanied by a rough bump on the shoulder by Pickles as he passes you in the hallway. A whole host of nasty responses and dark words gather on the tip of your tongue, but you bite them back. Clenching your fists, you force yourself to say, "Good morning, Pickles," in the even tone of voice which you usually use. He makes no response, and you resist the urge to turn around and flip him off.

None of them have ever been particularly kind to you, and most of the time, you're all right with that. As long as they keep producing the music which puts you in charge of nearly half of the world's economy, you're all right. But for some reason, Pickles has taken a turn for the worse lately, and it's getting under your skin far more than you expected it to.

Who the hell does he think he is? He's nothing without me. Absolutely nothing. They wouldn't last a year without me, especially not that alcoholic bastard. Unwillingly, your mind wanders to a time when things were different, a time when you were younger, but you shove it to the back of your mind.

To calm down, you stop by Nathan's room and harass him a bit about getting everyone set on starting the new record, because you can only stave off the record company for so long, etc, etc. You only leave when he threatens to throw something at you.

The rest of the day proceeds much the way it normally does. You chase all of them around all day, trying your best to get them to be productive (except for Pickles-for some reason you can't bring yourself to approach him). It ends in a generally inconclusive and useless band meeting in which Nathan accuses you of being a dick cheese, Murderface complains about his lack of publicity, Toki and Skwisgaar pay no attention because they're too busy with a model plane and the guitar, respectively, and Pickles sits far away from you, moodily taking sips from a beer bottle. You feel like slamming your files down onto the table and asking him what the fucking idea is, but you don't. Later, you lock yourself in your office and wade through mountains of paperwork diligently. When you finish, it's almost 2 a.m. Most of them are asleep now, or at least you assume so, without allowing your imagination to wander too far.

Exhausted, you stumble into the Mordhaus kitchen to get something to eat. As you're searching around, you jump when someone speaks to you.

"Whatcha doin', Charlie?"

You spin around and lean on the counter, breathing heavily from the scare you just received. Pickles is hunched over at the table, a half-empty bottle of whiskey next to him. You exhale heavily. This is not something that you want to deal with right now.

"Well, seeing as I've been working for the past...12 hours, or so, I figured I might get something to eat before bed. Is that all right with you?" Your tone is exactly as it normally sounds, which at the moment, feels positively miraculous.

Pickles gets up and begins to cross the kitchen. You can tell he's far gone, which was obvious enough, anyways.

"Didn't think robots had to eat."

You're really getting fed up with this. He's pushing you to your very limits.

"Pickles," you say, casting your eyes to the floor. "I don't understand what I did to make you angry, but please either tell me what it is or leave me alone. Passive aggressiveness gets nothing done." It's plausibly the most mild thing you could have said in this situation.

"You just...you just kind of exist, yanno?" He sways closer to you. "You just...sit there...starin' at me with that god damn judgmental facial expression, like you think you're so much fucking better than I am." He's still about three feet away from you. You continue to stare at him, silently, your face the same expression as it always is, or at least you hope so. Vaguely, you wonder what Pickles is trying to accomplish with this moody attitude he's been putting forth lately.

And then, all of a sudden, he's right in front of you-so close that your noses could almost touch-and his hands are on either side of your hips where they rest on the counter. Involuntarily, you lean back slightly, but Pickles is too fast for you, pressing his lips to yours more quickly than you could blink.

You freeze, too surprised to do anything-either rational, like shoving him off by the shoulders, or closing your eyes and allowing it to happen. You just stop moving, stop thinking, even stop breathing, for four whole seconds-like the damn robot that you are.

Finally he steps off of you, gives you a look of sad disappointment, and leaves the kitchen, slowly but surely. When he's safely out of sight, you exhale heavily and run your hands through your hair. For the life of you, you can't figure out what the hell just happened.

You decide to go to bed and ignore it. Just pretend like it didn't happen, and maybe it will go away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note**: Writing the beginning of this story more like [profuse vomiting]. Don't worry, I'm pretty sure it will get better when I get to the part of the storyline where my friend (thetoastlives in case you forgot) and I actually began roleplaying it. Thanks for your feedback!

* * *

Of course, you can't do it.

You can't just leave it alone.

The events of the previous night present a liability for you, unfinished business, a loose string, or an end not met. You can't stand that sort of thing. That might be partially why you're such a successful manager and lawyer-your manic attention to detail saves them from getting into trouble on countless occasions, and for countless more to come.

Uncharacteristically, you avoid it nearly all day. At breakfast, when you go to tell the band what would be beneficial for them to get done that day (which you doubt they'll do even half of, but that's all right), you pointedly avoid making eye contact with Pickles. You can feel across the room that it's pissing him off, and, strangely, it makes you nervous.

"Hey, Ahfdenson."

You almost jump, but catch yourself just in time. "Yes, Pickles?" You keep your eyes firmly fixed on the table, refusing to look at him. It feels cowardly and wrong. No respectable businessman avoids eye contact. You know this fully well, and yet you continue to trace a small crack in the table with your eyes as he speaks.

"Have you always been a ro-"

You stand suddenly, knocking your chair over backwards in your haste. You can't stand this. You're not called upon to stand this. You don't even get paid enough to stand this-that's right, over a million dollars a year and you're still not willing to deal with this shit.

You look down at him, expecting to see him smirking smugly, but instead he looks confused and slightly scared. Looking around at the rest of them, they wear the same facial expression-Nathan looks like a deer in headlights. That's when you realize-this sort of behavior from you is so completely new that all of them are actually scared.

You open your mouth, then close it, then open, then turn around and leave the room without another word.

It takes you about ten minutes to collect yourself, and then you return to business as usual. The event nags at you, though-yet another liability, something that will be even more difficult to deal with than the first.

Like a coward, you confine yourself to office work for the rest of the day.

* * *

At around 8:00, you figure it's high time you went to discuss a few things with Pickles. You wander through the halls of Mordhaus, procrastinating, before finally making your way to his room. Going to Dethklok's rooms at night is always a risky business-you never know what you're going to walk in on. However, you've been working with Pickles for a very long time, and you think that given his behavior recently, he's not likely to be in the middle of something that you don't want to see.

You're right-but only partially.

He's not on the bed, but rather in a chair, facing away from the door when you walk in. For some reason, your heart is beating very fast. This only escalates when you hear small sniffling noises coming from across the room. You freeze where you are.

_Is Pickles crying?_

You quickly avert your eyes, embarrassed beyond belief. You want nothing more than to turn tail and run away, as far away as you can, to the other side of Mordhaus, back to the safety of your office. But you don't. You force yourself to stay rooted to the spot until you can work up the courage to clear your throat and say, "Pickles."

You can't look at him, but the sniffling stops.

"Whet do you want, Ahfdenson?"

You clear your throat again, wanting to be anywhere but where you are. "I just, ah, wanted to talk to you about what, ah, happened last night, in the kitchen." A loud bang ensues, and you look up, startled, to see that he's knocked over the chair and is crossing the room towards you. You fight the urge to step back, and it frustrates you how easily Pickles can get under your skin and unnerve you.

"You didn't like it?" he asks. Other than a slight redness at the tip of his nose, you would have had no idea that he had just been crying.

You open your mouth to say of course not, that you're a professional man and that you could never afford to be tangled up in that sort of relationship, much less enjoy it, but the words stick in your throat.

He laughs slightly. "Charlie, you look like a dyin' fish when you do that." Then he closes the distance between you and drapes his arms over your shoulders. "It's kinda cute."

You waste all of a few seconds blushing and staring into his smirk before trying to duck out of his grasp, but he's too quick for you, pulling you forward and into your second kiss. This time, he goes further, pressing his tongue in between your lips. Before you understand what's happening, you find yourself reciprocating slightly, tentatively brushing your tongue against his. Then you realize what's happening and forcefully separate the two of you, shoving him off by the shoulders.

"This, is, ah...Pickles, this is highly unprofessional."

He only smirks.

"You're my...you're my boss, I can't...we can't..."

"Ah, c'mon, Charlie boy, you liked it and you know it."

And that's when you have to turn tail and run from the frightening truth which is staring you squarely in the face.


End file.
